


Strings of desire

by erimies



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Desire Demon(s) (Dragon Age) - Freeform, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Humor, M/M, Moral Bankruptcy, Romance, Sexual Content, sort of, the au where hawke is a demon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erimies/pseuds/erimies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett Hawke was a charming man. His friends trusted him, his mother and sister loved him, his brother envied him. Unfortunately, the person they thought they knew wasn't exactly human. </p><p>A drabble series I will update sporadically. I have too much on the plate to turn this into proper chapters, but I don't want to hoard things on my laptop. I like this idea too much.</p><p>EDIT: story proper, 'Whatever lies closest' is now up!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The last mistake

 

Is there something you want? The joys of flesh and feverish touch, the wealth of gold and caviar, or simply a throne to sit above all others?

Or perhaps you want things that are more modest; warm hearth, plentiful harvest and robust health. This does not matter. The important part is that you _want_.

If you claim otherwise, you are a liar. All have felt the caress of desire. It drives us forward, forces us to move, but you do not always end up where you want. Sometimes, desire is slow, burning like embers. Other times, it is sharp and violent. And always, always cruel. You could not edge a knife between the thin line that separates despair and desire.

Garrett Hawke wanted many things. A home where he could carve an impression of himself and watch as the building grew old around his family. A town so familiar he could let his feet take him where he needed to be, without having to stop to think. A life where an unusual sound in the middle of the night did not make cold fingers run down his spine.

He had none of these things. What he had was a family, and a life on the run.

And magic, crawling under his skin, always willing and eager.

He leaped out of the bed, fingers wrapping around the staff that always lay right beside the bed. There was no time for changing clothes, but the Hawke family was ever ready to run into the night.

Somewhere downstairs he heard the crackle of his father’s lightning. Lots of enemies, then. Chain lightning was a dangerous thing. You didn’t waste it on a handful.

Hawke made it out of his room just in time to jab the blunt end of his staff at the first Templar soldier climbing upstairs. He fell, surprised, and the rest tumbled down with him.

Hawke made a quick, faithless prayer. Then, the advancing Templar forces were struck down by a small and localised storm of ice.

 

* * *

 

Bethany, Hawke thought numbly. He had to protect Bethany. And Carver, who didn’t have the sense to back down when overwhelmed.

Hawke lifted his head, trying to blink blood from his eyes. The hallway was full of corpses. Blood seeped through the ratty carpet they had made from old scraps of cloth. The smell of charred flesh lingered in the air.

But there were still more Templars. He wondered what had happened, that they would go this far. Father wasn’t a blood mage, would never lend his ear to the whispers of demons. He had taught those same things to his children, too.

A Templar emerged, dragging a struggling form. “Will you stay still, you –!”

It was Bethany. She was crying. Blood stained her robes.

 _Please, sister_ , Hawke thought. _Please calm down. Don’t do anything rash._

As usual, he did not get what he wanted. Bright light bloomed in Bethany’s hands, uncaring of the suppression of Templar lyrium.

Hawke might have admired her ability, if he wasn’t struck by terror. Another Templar, who wasn’t busy trying to hold onto Bethany, pulled out his sword. It gleamed, sharp and terrible, in the light of magic.  

A thought formed in Hawke’s mind. As far as thoughts go, this was a dangerous one.

_If we’re all going to die anyway –_

In answer, there was a voice in his mind, and it was not his own. It was pleasant and lilting, slithering down all the right pathways of his brain.

_Is there something you want?_

 


	2. The truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was probably some sort of a miracle. The demon didn't care one way or the other.

 

Garret Hawke was many things.  He was the oldest son of Malcolm Hawke, an apostate mage, and the owner of a particularly attractive beard.

He was also an abomination.

The demon that wore Hawke’s face wasn’t sure what exactly had happened. The deal had been struck, it had been ready to manifest itself, and there would have been carnage. The host’s family would have been spared, if it managed to keep in control, because it was fairly conscientious as far as demons went. You might twist the deal until it was a mockery of the original intent, but you did not abandon it. At least, not as long as it was interesting.

(Incidentally, it was also, as far as demons went, not very interested in convoluted plots and random violence. Mostly because it had the attention span of a gnat.)

Now, years and years after that night, it was still honouring that deal. Hawke was not dead, per se, but he wasn’t quite _there_ either. The demon had eventually decided that he was asleep, but didn’t know enough to understand why. The body had long since recovered. It had not mutated. Hawke should have woken, but he had not.

Learning how to play the part had not been easy. The demon knew enough of human psyche to tempt, but its knowledge was still terribly limited, unsuited for the mental acrobatics and shortcuts that the human mind went through on daily basis.

During those times, it fell back on the lingering memories of Hawke. Eventually the effort _had_ paid off. When it walked outside, people smiled and waved in greeting. Hawke’s mother smiled at it. The siblings called it brother.

Eventually, it learned to read expectations. Everything got easier, after that.

Only Bethany had come close to the truth, years and years ago. She had happened to walk upon her gentle, kind older brother as he stomped down on the frail body of a kitten, with a terrible look of mild curiosity on his face. She had watched him turn, and surprise bloom on his face. Then, an emotion she could not (did not want to) understand (realization that it had been caught breaking the rules).

Before the hideous thought could come out – she could feel it trying to emerge, bulging and ugly – her brother’s face had broken into remorse and tears. “Don’t tell mother,” he’d said, voice wretched with regret. “I – I don’t know what got me. The, the kitten clawed at me. I was surprised. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Some distant part of Bethany had whispered that there was no blemish on her brother’s skin. She had ignored it. She didn’t want to know the truth.

She had hugged the form of his brother and believed the whisper of the demon.

Eventually, she forgot. It took some effort.

And then, there was the blight. 

 


	3. Irony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darkspawn are immune to demonic influence. Templars, however, are not.

 

By the time they reached the woman called Aveline and her husband, Hawke was willing to personally go out and destroy every single darkspawn on earth. Filthy, rotting things, knowing nothing beyond a cruel instinct to destroy.

No sophistication at all. They could not even be tempted. All they wanted was carnage, and there was nothing that could stray them from that path. Hawke took offence. 

But he had to protect the family. He wasn’t sure when exactly that thought had ceased to be optional, just like he couldn’t recall when he had started to think of himself as Hawke.

He supposed humanity leaked through, over time. It didn’t matter. The demon that was Hawke wasn’t particularly prone to suffering from an identity crisis. That sort of thing helped when you didn’t intend to go on a bloody rampage that would earn you nothing but a swift banishment back to the Fade.

Life had so much to offer. He wasn’t through with it yet.

The husband was a Templar.

One of the finer things of human psyche was the understanding of irony. Hawke embraced the sentiment with childish glee. He almost laughed out loud, the kind of low lurching cackle he had long learned to keep inside, lest he wanted people to start avoiding him.

It was so easy.

He looked, saw the threads of desire, and pulled. He was almost embarrassed. He could tempt a sister of Chantry out of her plain, chaste undergarments. Having to resort to something as basic as survival instinct was a blow to his pride.

But there was family to think of.

Hawke furrowed his forehead gently, the very image a voice of reason. “Perhaps it would be a good idea to postpone this discussion about our magic? The darkspawn are many, and my family is exhausted.”

The voice was beseeching and sensible, clear in its concern. There was only imploring worry, no accusation. That sentiment had to be treated with velvet gloves. People tended to lash out when blamed.

As always, it worked. The Templar husband flushed, and stammered his agreement. He thought himself a reasonable person, and could not bear to believe otherwise.

Hawke smiled, his face open with relief he didn’t really feel. There was always something people wanted.

And they were so much more willing to walk into a trap when you looked like a human. 

 


	4. The Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people you can't fool. You just have to hope they will play along.

 

“You _are_ a curious thing, aren’t you,” Flemeth said quietly, and if eyes could pierce, Hawke would have had a new hole somewhere on his person. He tried not to look too nervous.

This woman had a tough mind, like old leather. She desired, but her wishes were odd and hard to decipher.

And she, too, saw deep. Hawke drew out the human part of himself, wrapped it around the things that were too rough and wanting. Then, he clasped his hands and took a shivering breath. “Is there anything I could do for you, that you might consider lending us your aid once more? I fear, my mother and sister… lady Aveline’s husband…”

Flemeth raised an eyebrow. “My, you do know how to talk, don’t you? But yes. There is something you might be able to do for me.”

Hawke let relief wash on his face. This time, it was true. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aveline's husband still died, but Hawke's siblings survived both. This Hawke packs serious power, even though he prefers to try and talk his way out of trouble.


	5. Delusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrival to Kirkwall could not have come sooner

 

Kirkwall was a wretched hive of chains and filth. And yet, in the face of the blight, it still seemed inviting.

There was a crowd of people spilling over the docks, tired and desperate. They were barely kept in control by several bored guardsmen, who seemed to have nothing to say but rehearsed lines.

“How are we ever going to get in?” Aveline asked. She was exhausted. The journey had not been an easy one, and they would all have been worse for the wear if the eldest, Garrett, had not somehow managed to talk the sailors into providing extra ratios.

The man in question turned and gave her a reassuring grin. Aveline had never quite seen such a bright, trustworthy smile in her entire life. An inner voice, the part of her that was just and fair, said that things that seemed too good to be true usually were.

“Don’t worry,” Garrett said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Aveline found herself smiling, as the guard waved them through not five minutes after.

Perhaps she had spent too long listening to Wesley. Some people simply happened to be charming.

 


	6. The wretched city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Kirkwall make acquaintance.

 

Hawke couldn’t quite stop himself from grinning. Kirkwall was a wretched hive, and offered endless opportunity. The veil was weak, he felt, and it was so easy to _see_. People had grand dreams, and drowned their despair in ale that smelled and tasted of old piss.

He felt an itch to go and explore. There was so much he could do with this kind of city. What was that human saying again, the world was an oyster? Certainly it seemed filthy and disgusting and full of possibilities.

This must be, he thought, what it feels like to be alive.

For a few days, he tested the waters. Their uncle had not been happy to offer them lodgings, and Hawke didn’t have to be a demon to be able to tell that Gamlen had swindled what wasn’t his. No matter. There were other things, and they wouldn’t have to stay at his hovel for long.

When he was sure his family would be all right for the time being, he set out. He wanted friends.

Eventually, inevitably, he made his way to the Hanged Man. The place was a despicable, filthy, morally bankrupt watering hole. Hawke loved it. Sin and depravity almost had a substance, there.

Varric’s mind stood out to Hawke like a pearl amongst trash. He was dealing cards to several people around a small table. There were piles of coin scattered across the surface.

Hawke ambled towards them, posture carefully open and relaxed. He gave Varric a disarming grin. The flavour of the day might have been called ‘I know you’re a crook, but then, so am I’.

“Mind if I play? See, I’m new in town. I feel it would be a terrible shame to deny you all the chance to bask in my presence.”

He broke into laugh at the end, with just the right amount of exaggeration in the words.

You had to be able to make fun of yourself. People like Varric liked that. 

 


	7. Hostile takeover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke had no intention to live at the miserable place his uncle called home. Unfortunately, real estate was not readily available, unless one had less than clean morals about acquiring it.

 

Two weeks into their stay at Kirkwall, Hawke found what he had been looking for in the form of a manor in hightown. The place happened to belong to a Tevinter magister by the name of Danarius. He did not live there himself, at the moment, but there was a skeleton crew of staff to take care of basic maintenance. They were well trained and absolutely frightened of their master.

It took Hawke five minutes to get his hands on a pair of keys. He moved himself and his family in two hours later. One week after, he was the official owner of the place. It was a half legal holding, which meant that in the eyes of the law he was the rightful owner, but he had arrived to that position with very illegal means. The staff of the manor found themselves with a new master, and none of them was quite sure how it all had happened. 

This simple act would eventually lead into quite a bit of trouble. If Hawke had known that, he would not have acted any differently. Perhaps, he might have bounced a little in anticipation.

 


	8. New home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's family get to see their new home.

 

“So, what do you think?” Hawke asked his family. His mother and siblings looked around the mansion with a sort of nervous appreciation.

“It’s certainly better than Gamlen’s place,” his sister allowed. He could see the way she put the words in a tidy, careful line. Everything she said was designed to be inoffensive.

It was fascinating, really. She didn’t even realise she was doing it.

“Yeah, until the Templars come knocking on the door,” said Carver. His voice these days seemed permanently stuck somewhere between petulant and angry. Hawke wasn’t sure how it had all happened. Somewhere along the line his brother had just started to harbour resentment and no matter how well Hawke took care of everything, it never went away. He could talk his way out of paying taxes, but he could not get his brother to go back to that hero worship he had once showed both his elder brother and father.

Perhaps it had something to do with growing. Many emotions seemed to get more complicated as years went by. Humans were so interesting.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Hawke said. He couldn’t quite help the cheer in his voice, even though it was sure to annoy his brother even more.

“I’ve got a friend who has his hands in most of the pockets in this city. No one will bother us here.”

He was almost right. But at least it wasn’t the Templars who eventually came knocking.

 


	9. Unwelcome guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pervious owner pays a visit.

 

Danarius arrived to Kirkwall only to find that his manor had been appropriated by an apostate.

The magister stood at the door of the building, not quite believing his eyes, as the man in question scratched at his beard and didn’t seem at all cowed by his entourage of soldiers or the very obvious fact that he was a magister. The intruder wore bunny slippers. Somehow, this was the most offending detail about him.

“This is my manor,” Danarius hissed, and wished he was still in Tevinter where he would have been able to put this man in his place. Regrettably, he was not, and thus had to pay lip service to the ridiculous ideas about magic these outlanders seemed to have.

The man shrugged. “Not anymore it isn’t. It’s not my fault you didn’t bother securing all the legal loopholes. Way I see it, since I managed to take it over, I clearly deserve to own the place.”

Danarius had to take a moment to wrap his mind around the statement. He was not adequately prepared to such blatant disrespect.

Hawke yawned, and sipped at his coffee. “I really don’t have anything to say to you, so if you’ll excuse me – “

He slammed the door against Danarius’ face. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post this and the next one so badly I sort of skipped writing a few things that really should have come in between their arrival to Kirkwall and here. Ah well. I did promise myself I wouldn't bother myself about the story structure this time.


	10. Layers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In general, Hawke can be counted on to play his own game.

 

Varric laughed until he had to put down his beer. Then, he sobered up.

“It’s a dangerous thing you did there, Silver. Magisters are not the nicest people, I’ve found. I’d hate for Sunshine to get mixed in the mess. And Junior. But mostly Sunshine.”

Hawke pouted. “You don’t care for me? I am wounded, Varric. I thought we had something special.”

Varric snorted. “You could talk your way back from beyond the grave, Silver. I never have to worry about you. It’s only after you’re done and the magister realises you threw a dozen subtle insults in his way that the real trouble happens.”

Hawke grinned and shrugged in a manner that suggested he regretted precisely nothing. “The man has _slaves_ , Varric. You know what I think of slavery.”

He did, in fact, dislike slavery, if not for the morally outstanding reasons. Slaves were, for the lack of a better word, boring. They didn’t think of future, did not nurture hopes and dreams, and only wanted to please their master.

Boring, boring, _boring_.

But the reason he bothered to condemn the practise out loud was for the benefit of the elf that had been stalking him ever since the confrontation with Danarius. His name was Fenris, and he hated slavers with undying passion.

He also thought Hawke was attractive, somewhere under layers of denial and confusion. To Hawke, it had been as clear as a shooting star against the night sky, the thrill Fenris had felt when Hawke slammed the door right into his former master’s face.

Normally, Hawke would have passed. Fenris seemed like a lot of effort, what with his hatred of all things magic and Hawke’s firm status as an apostate mage and secret abomination.

But business had been good and he was a little bored. Driving Danarius to the edge with rage was entertaining enough, but he sort of wanted to see if he could draw Fenris out and poke at his mind. You had to have a challenge every now and then.

Varric raised an eyebrow, but inclined his head. “If you get in trouble, I’m going to be there to provide support fire and less than flattering opinions.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Hawke said fondly. He really did like Varric. He had to lie a lot less when he spoke to the dwarf. “I might have to take you up on the offer. I expect it’ll all come to blows sooner rather than later. Magisters are proud. I just didn’t want to fight near my mansion. I have to pay for the repairs, or I get hounded by the neighbourhood committee – “

And then, as Hawke had expected, a rather prickly-looking elf stepped out of the shadows and approached them.

“I – Sorry to disturb you,” he said. “I am Fenris. I have a proposition for you.”

Hawke turned, gave Fenris an appreciative look and flashed a grin that said he was free and devastatingly attractive and possibly many other things, should Fenris so wish.

“Oh, I’ll listen to any proposition from _you_.”

Fenris stumbled over his words, ears flushing red. Varric snorted. Hawke could almost feel him shake his head. 

 


	11. I don't understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were some things that would always remain a mystery to Hawke. Some would say it's impolite to wonder about them when you're in bed with someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drabble format isn't really working out for me. I think I'll post the few scraps I have, then make a proper story out of this sometime in future. Of course, this means you get the current versions of a couple of scenes that would only happen later. Uh, enjoy?

 

Hawke rather liked sex. There were all sorts of traps in a conversation, if you didn’t watch where your words went. It was simpler, in bed. Instructions, compliments, begging… all had their own time and place, and there were only so many variations of what people wanted. That was the reason lust demons were not so powerful.

Fenris was no different. He didn’t quite know what he wanted, but he understood what he _didn’t_ want, and Hawke followed the subtle nuances he picked from the maelstrom that was Fenris’ mind.

Hawke found that he was fascinated. He was well versed in the arts of bedroom, but the boiling mess that was Fenris’ mind was unlike anything he had encountered.

There had been young girls with simple, powerful crushes that were built on fragile, vague expectations that seemed larger than life and collapsed so easily. He had quickly learned to avoid them. He didn’t like it when people cried. It was messy and ugly.

Most of the time, he preferred women like Isabela. There was a lot of fun to be had when there were no complicated strings attached. There was freedom to explore, and breathless laughter, and breakfast with fresh coffee. He thought it was foolish that people were so strung up about sex, when it could be so simple.

He had not been with many men, but there had been a few. Those affairs had often been interesting, which tended to mean ‘difficult’. It had taken him a long time to understand, but the threads around preferring the company of one’s own gender were both many and sharp. He had tripped, multiple times, simply by doing something like kissing a man in public.

Fenris was something else even then. Hawke had a vague idea that most of the turmoil had to do with memories of slavery. Fair enough, he didn’t mind letting Fenris pull the shots in bed, if that was what he wanted. But it didn’t end there. Fenris… yearned. For something, something like those young girls with silly crushes, but the sentiment was far more desperate. Heavier.

It resembled Anders, in a way, and that was an alarming thought. Anders was so fragile.

Hawke wondered if Fenris wanted love. He knew the taste of love. A handful of people in the past had learned to think of Hawke with something deep and vast, an ocean of warmth.Yet, of all feelings people had, that one he understood the least. He had _tried_ , but he could not comprehend it, and the vague affection he had learned to cultivate paled in comparison.

He was vary of the thing that was love. It was intricate and fascinating and interesting, but there was always that time when it broke. He disliked _that_ , the sense of shattering into little pieces of glass. He didn’t care to make people feel such way. Affection usually came with that odd emotional sub clause that seemed to forbid him from causing them pain.

But that thought was for later. Hawke could deal with affection, and Fenris responded to his touch with very promising shivers and gasps. Hawke’s own body throbbed with need, but that, also, was something for later. Physical sensations could never be as interesting as the way Fenris’ mind tripped over into incoherent tangents when Hawke licked his hard length, carefully, up and down.

And later, when he finally coaxed Fenris over the threshold of his orgasm, there was something else.

Memories, breaking through the shield of pain in Fenris’ mind. Hawke watched them, surprised, and almost failed to act when the veil threatened to smother them again.

Fenris wanted his memories. Hawke could feel him trying to grip at them, with fierce desperation and panic, but it was like trying to hold water in a sieve.

He reached out and helped.

 


	12. Careful steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke wishes people knew what they wanted.

 

When Hawke woke up, Fenris was fully dressed and upset.

“But isn’t that what you wanted? Your memories?” Hawke asked, and couldn’t quite help the frustration in his voice. He hated it when this sort of thing happened. You gave people what they wanted, and then they suddenly didn’t want it anymore.

Fenris stiffened at once, outrage blooming like an ugly flower. “Did _you_ do this to me? Mess with my mind?”

The question had many sharp edges. Hawke looked into Fenris’ mind and saw the waiting trap. Anger boiled and bubbled, barely held back by incredulous insistence that Hawke would do no such thing.

Hawke wasn’t sure why Fenris thought that, because that was, in fact, exactly what he had done. Not that he would admit to anything, the seed of argument looked rather destructive. He would rather take Fenris to bed again, sometime in the future.

 “If I was going to magically dig out your lost memories, I would _hardly_ do that while I’m in bed with you. I rather had other things in mind.”

There was a shade of admonishment in his voice, the verbal version of a raised eyebrow and that handy gesture – palms up, arms spread – that suggested that the other look at their own statement again and see the obvious mistakes in logic.

It was irritating, having to play catch with words like this. Fenris had wanted the memories. Now he had them, and he was still upset.

Hawke didn’t understand.

But Fenris reacted as he had expected, coughing in embarrassment and turning. Hawke could see the tips of his ears tint red.

Hawke looked at his mind, and sighed. Fenris had slipped right back into the same old rut. He didn’t know how to deal with what had happened, so he was going to run.

Maybe it was for the best. Somehow, talking with Fenris always ended up in these circular arguments that never went anywhere. Hawke wanted simple things, like sex and booze. He didn’t much care for the knots inside Fenris’ head. They were not the fun kind of challenging.

“Will I see you next week for Wicked Grace?”

Fenris flinched. Hawke frowned at the sudden guilt and suppressed a sigh. Fenris couldn’t even run away without complications.

“I… look, I need time,” Fenris said, his voice tight and pleading. Hawke stared blankly for several seconds, trying to get to the bottom of the complicated sentiment that had emerged.

There was a tangled thread of desire to flee, strangled by his yearning to stay. An expectation of awkward dealings in future, for reasons Hawke couldn’t decipher, and a want for reassurance that Hawke would not reject his company. A faint thread of budding regret that Hawke regarded with alarm. Fenris was already high maintenance, more so if he were to actually fall in love.

Hawke preferred simple things. But he didn’t want Fenris to go away forever. That was… simple enough.

So, he smiled instead, reassuring and understanding. “Take all the time you need. I will still be here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now. I probably won't post anything else until I can make something of a story of this.


	13. Bonus drabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I posted the first two chapters of the story proper, 'Whatever lies closest'. Go check it out. :P
> 
> This is a bonus drabble, because I don't want to post just a status update.

Hawke laid a hand on Anders’ shoulder. “Look, all this brooding over mages and Templars isn’t good for you. Focus on the good things. Like, uh, drinking and pretty people.”

Justice didn’t appreciate that statement.

 _You are a demon of sloth_ , it declared. _Do not try to turn me from the path of justice!_

Hawke was mortally offended.

“How _dare_ you,” he said, voice thick and raw with outrage.

Everyone else shifted uncomfortably. It was not something a mage wanted to hear, being accused of being a demon, but Hawke had always given off the impression that his patience could stretch from Kirkwall to Par Vollen.

“Of all things, you’re accusing me of being a _sloth_ demon? Those things never even _do_ anything!”

Tension deflated. Aveline rubbed her temples.

“Priorities, Silver,” Varric said, laughing. 

“Up yours, Varric,” Hawke replied fondly.

Meanwhile, Anders had managed to browbeat Justice back into line. “Hawke, I’m so sorry! Out of all people, you…”

“No harm done,” Hawke said, eyes closed in a cheerful smile. “Just pick a better demon next time. Give me some credit!”

Anders snorted. It sounded like a sob, but the others were kind enough to pretend they didn’t notice.


End file.
